


Three In the Morning Redux

by TallSaint



Series: Three In the Morning [2]
Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:07:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23599570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TallSaint/pseuds/TallSaint
Summary: I revived a flash-fiction series I finished up over two years ago with a different style so I've put all the works with this new style here.
Series: Three In the Morning [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698679





	1. Slow Dancing With Ghosts

It's three in the morning. I'm slow dancing with ghosts. The twilight hours are quiet and the only light comes from my Wi-Fi extender, the bright blue barely making a dent in the darkness, small like the light of a distant ship, or a lighthouse perhaps. Tonight I'm restless, so many thoughts swirling around my head in the same way ballroom dancers command the floor. I'm completely unable to sleep, my bed feels too large and I feel so utterly alone in it. It's three in the morning and I'm slow dancing with the ghosts of ideas past and metaphors long dead, a writer trying to write with dried up ink in a pitch black room, wondering why no ideas materialise.

It's four in the morning, no light seeps from around the edges of my blind, summer is making her way out, leading slowly into autumn with his crisp golden leaves and cool air. It's four in the morning and I'm slow dancing with ghosts of seasons past, the heating's turned up, gone are the nights of sleeping in tank tops and shorts substituted for thick leggings and t-shirts. When autumn comes to an end it will be abruptly as winter storms her way in, frost clings to the windows and the cold nips at my fingers.

It's five in the morning. I'm no longer slow dancing with the ghosts in my head or of seasons past. I finally fall asleep, before the sun rises and as dawn creeps ever closer. Rain falls as a drizzle, never quite seeming to hit the ground, rather it lingers, just like ghosts.


	2. Variations

It’s three in the morning. I stare at a ceiling that is not my own in a room that is not my own. It’s too cold to be my own. The frigid air seeps in through the open window slowly, the same way a sunrise sweeps across the city. Despite it being winter birds chirp outside, their song almost lulls me back to sleep. The room is dark enough that I can barely see but I can make out spines of well-loved books and details of posters in the dark. It’s three in the morning. I stare at the ceiling in my room. For the fourth night in a row I cannot sleep. There is no open window for the frigid air to seep through, it cannot wrap its fingers around me and bury itself in long healed broken bones. The warmth of my room extends itself to me for a moment. There is no birdsong tonight, in a room that is brightly lit where music drowns out whispered thoughts and whispered words. 

It’s four in the morning, I pull covers that are not my own tighter, as their owner tries to unconsciously take them from me. The room is too cold, winter’s stormed into it and buried herself in broken bones long healed. It’s four in the morning, I throw my covers off me, my room is too warm coating my skin in a sheen of sweat. Doors slam violently, I am not the only one awake, that at least is comforting.

It is five in the morning. I lie in a room that is too light to be my own, I am wide awake while the guy I’m in bed with is sound asleep. It is five in the morning and I lie awake in my own room, I cannot sleep. Mania has wormed her way into my bones, setting my skin alight, giving me more energy than I should truly have. The room is dark and birdsong filters in. I am alone.


	3. Drinking

It is three in the morning and I am drinking rum and orange juice in the kitchen with my flatmates. We are in lockdown, listening to jazz and talking about various topics. This is the longest I’ve been in a room with them. The interaction between myself, my drunk flatmate and the other sober one draws me from my depression. If only for a moment. The kitchen is bright, the floor unswept. The harsh lightning reminds me of a hospital. We sit on countertops despite having sofas and we play music just loud enough that the neighbours would complain if we were not in lockdown. It is three in the morning and I am laughing. Laughing so hard I cannot breathe, I am comfortable here.

It is four in the morning and I am playing World of Warcraft with friends. I feel hollow. It is mindless level grinding yet it stops the thoughts. In three hours’ time I will take 100mg of quetiapine and pass out for 29 hours, but for now I am grateful to have my friends to keep my mind off the thoughts. It is four in the morning and birds sing outside, the room is lightening and I am so tired. I want to drink more but straight rum is vomit inducing and I cannot tolerate straight vodka anymore.

It is five in the morning. I am still awake. I am still playing World of Warcraft. I want to drink. I want to drink until I fall asleep because being asleep is so much better than being awake. I do not. My mind drifts from thought to thought, I feel like a passenger in my own life. But for now I am okay with that. Huddled in grey sheets in a yellow lit room, I am reminded of my nan’s. In two hours’ time I will take 100mg of quetiapine and sleep for 29 hours, I will not need the alcohol I want to drink. I do not need to drink.


	4. Shards

It is three in the morning and my throat feels like it is filled with shards of glass, water seems to wash the shards away for a moment. My room is pitch black, the type of dark I imagine you'd only experience out in the countryside, away from the harsh city lights. It is three in the morning and I am coated in a thin sheen of sweat wishing for relief and sleep. 

It is four in the morning and heavy eyes make patterns out of almost imperceptible cracks in white ceilings and white walls. The flat is oddly silent, no one slams doors this morning. I feel almost alone. It is four in the morning and I cough on crushed up ibruprofen, the sugar coating long useless. Ibruprofen I have decided tastes like chalk. It stops the feeling of swallowing shards and the relentless heat long enough for me to sleep.

It is five in the morning and for once despite the sunrise and the birdsong I am asleep. It is five in the morning and in my sleep my fever breaks. I am plagued by nightmares that seem to worsen when the fever breaks. In my sleep I shatter into the shards of glass that no longer plague my throat. I am afraid


	5. Rainstorm

It is three in the morning and I am wandering through deserted streets, flower petals coat the floor beneath my feet and the air is warm and heavy. There is no moonlight tonight, its radiance obscured by dark clouds that threaten to unleash torrents of water upon the dim streets. In other circumstances it would be easy to imagine romantic clichés of lovers kissing beneath streetlights in the rain, but the world has been tossed on its head. No lovers kiss under streetlights. No giggling girls or rowdy boys walk the streets. It is easy to imagine that it is only me, existing in the world right now. I feel so very alone as my footfalls echo off the pavement

It is four in the morning and I am soaked to the bone. The sky voicing its displeasure as the oppressive heat abates to a soundtrack of thunder and rain. The street seems to become an empty stage, lit by lightning. My footfalls turn to splashes as I climb the hill home. The noise in my head drowned out by the thunder and my own breathing. It’s a pleasant reprieve from the thoughts.

It is five in the morning and I am sat at my window watching the raindrops trace their way down the pane, when I was a child I’d chase them down the window as if I were pushing them. It is five in the morning and the sun is rising. I have not slept.


End file.
